Happy Holidays & Sorry About the Genocide Pact I'm About to Sign!

I'm in Copenhagen, Denmark right now for this.

It's the final day of negotiations, and I don't think any of us knew what to expect exactly. I know that we certainly didn't expect that our leaders would magically & suddenly grow a conscience and throw traditional political deal-making protocol to the wind in favor of saving humanity. But maybe we dared to dream a bit . . . maybe we thought that our vigils, our protests, our actions, our pleas, the mountains of emails that have been pouring into our electeds' inboxes that poor little interns have to sift through . . . maybe we thought some of that would help them aim a little higher, at least pretend to respect human life, no, ALL life, enough to make a real deal and save our asses. Maybe we thought the science would convince them.

While the final text has yet to emerge from the clusterfuck that is COP15, all signs (including world leaders' orations this morning) point to a treaty that will facilitate the impending apocalypse. Most notably, POTUS Barack Obama, once hoped to swoop in as a last-minute game-changer, stood in front of a microphone today to deliver a flat, uninspired speech confirming the US's laughable carbon emissions reduction targets: 17% by 2020, and 80% by 2050. Perhaps out of embarrassment, he didn't even bother providing the baseline year for those targets, but we'll assume that it's consistent with earlier reports - 2005. For those of you whose eyelids are drooping at the numbers, I'll sum it up quickly by saying that that we need to commit to reductions of 40% below 1990 levels by 2020 to stabilize the climate and not threaten the lives of millions of people around the world.

So, when just about an hour later I received an email from Organizing for America, the group of dedicated organizers who brought you the Presidency of Barack Obama, I was a bit puzzled. Were they apologizing to me already?

Nope. They were sending me a holiday card. From the President. Who just told me through a live stream from the heavily guarded Bella Center that he's like, totally okay with displacement, hunger, lack of water, resource wars, and death for millions of people on the planet.

"Happy Holidays, Persian Girl!" was shouted to me by groups of friendly Americans from around the country in a montage, before I was treated to a special appearance by the Big O himself, wishing me Happy Holidays & signing a card made out to me.

Possibly they're wishing us happy holidays now because they know they may only have a few more years to do so before we're dead of some climate change related affliction? Happy Holidays indeed.

Colonialist Mentality on the Daily: A Micro-level Analysis

With a heavy heart and three big bumps on my precious noggin, I take to the outlet of my blog to write this.

This past Saturday night I went to a show in San Francisco I had been so looking forward to. Telefon Tel Aviv's melodic, ambient sounds awaited me (sans Charlie Cooper, RIP) at Bottom of the Hill, a venue in Potrero I had yet to visit. I, recently dumped, and with a health scare the previous week, was determined to enjoy myself that day and night, having treated myself to clothes I couldn't afford earlier on in the day and hoping the music would soothe some of my worries away.

I should say, I get nervous in crowds sometimes. Especially when I don't look like everyone else in the room. (as in all the time.) The show was predominantly white, with weedwhacker haircuts and facial piercings and the sour expressions of surly San Franciscans as far as the eye could see. "It's okay," I thought, "I've been here before. We have this music in common, so it's all good."

My friends and I stood near the stage, staking our spot through one non-offensive opening act and another terribly offensive Depeche Mode meets The Wedding Singer meets Megadeth meets latfh.com act. Then Telefon Tel Aviv came on, and the room was hushed. We swayed and smiled and closed our eyes. We danced lightly. It was a sweet and mellow time. Before the second to last song, Joshua said, "This one's for Charlie," and the night was starting to feel complete, regardless of the obnoxious couple who had crowded up behind me and my friend and were pushing us into the stage. I had managed to ignore them thus far, and refrained from the shit-talking I would usually participate in about people with their particular fashion sense. I chose to succumb to the music instead, even when I vaguely half-heard her make some disparaging remarks about me.

But as soon as the last song started, she of the tacky red thrift store dress and ridiculous hair took it a little too far. She pushed into me, intentionally, a couple of times before I finally turned around and asked her to back up. She was immediately aggro, coked out probably, refusing to back up even though she was pushing me right into the stage. So I told her to shut up and back the fuck up out of my space and turned around.

Before I knew what was happening, she had grabbed me by my curls from behind and was smashing her drink glass into my head. I tried to turn around but I couldn't see anything, as she was pushing my hair into my face. One of the only things I remember thinking during the brawl was how much I miss my shaved head. I attempted to swing, punch, claw, but I was useless. She had sucker punched me. For someone who knows how to kick some goddamn ass when she needs to, this was frustrating to say the least.

I emerged from my own hair curtain slipping on broken glass and soaking wet with booze. I hadn't had a drop to drink that night because of the antibiotics I am on, and immediately pictured myself getting pulled over on the drive home and trying to explain to a police officer that no, I swear, I was not drinking.

I saw that a circle had formed and that her boyfriend was holding her back, seemingly to protect her. It took every ounce of strength I had not to lunge at her, not because of any attempt at making peace, but because after all, we know which skin tone gets arrested in situations like this, don't we? So instead, I shouted as loud as I could varied obscenities peppered with phrases like "You're a tacky bitch!" and "Your hair is lame!" (it really was.)

I walked right past my two friends who had been near me the whole time. I knew they wouldn't do what I needed a friend to do in this situation. I've rarely known a white person to understand this kind of situation, unless they were raised within a certain class, which my friends definitely were not. I went to the back room to look for my brown friend/lover, who had gone to lie down in a booth a few minutes earlier, mellowed by the music. Somehow, through alcohol dripping into my eyes, I explained what happened. He jumped up with the fury that a brown, immigrant tranny exudes in the face of such injustice. He knew what was up.

We walked toward the exit and saw the happy white couple at the end of the bar, looking like they were about to order another drink. We raged. It's a blur. We were alternating telling the tacky bitch that we'd see her outside with trying to explain to the bar staff what happened.

Are you ready for the big fucking surprise of the year? The bar staff started yelling at us, treating us like Angry Brown People, telling us to calm down. I told them they wouldn't fucking be calm if some dumb bitch had just broken a glass over their head. They said there was no way to know what happened. I told them they could go ask any of the six people who were asking me if I was okay after seeing what happened. They acted like we were crazy. They acted like we were the ones who fucked up, who did something wrong. They let her go. They didn't call the cops. They let her go and told me to calm down. They lied about having security on the dance floor. They let her go. They didn't call the police. They told me to calm down. They let her go!

Can you imagine that it would be at all possible for a brown person to do that to a white person in a predominantly white bar and to have the white staff, ironic mustaches and all, tell the white person to calm down and let the brown person go without calling the cops? If you are brown or have half a brain, you know that this would never happen.

My friend wanted to kick her ass outside, but I insisted she wasn't worth it. She walked off with her boyfriend and friend, making gestures she probably saw on MTV, probably walking back to the apartment her parents pay the rent for. I yelled at them as they walked away, obscenities . . . I couldn't control myself. It was either that or cry and I couldn't let the entitled bitch see me cry.

I tried to tell the door guy that in the future, he should call the police in such situations. He interrupted me, wouldn't let me finish, told me I should have come to him (which I did do.) He ignored the facts and chose to belittle me, dismiss me, treat me like an angry brown person.

Fuck yeah I'm an angry brown person.

Whether on the macro-level or the micro-level, this situation is what happens over and over and over in the world:

White people believe they are entitled to something (ie. space), and so choose to take it. If a brown person challenges them, they get rude. If said brown person challenges them further, they get violent. When some regulatory body is brought into it, they are almost always white and assume that the brown person did something wrong. The brown person gets accused; the white person gets off scot-free. White person goes on believing that the world is theirs and that they deserve and can have whatever they want.

Anybody who tells me this is not the case has got their head up their ass. It is no coincidence that every brown person I know (and every brown person they know) has at least one story that demonstrates this cycle. If you think this isn't about race, you've managed to reach this point in your life with no understanding of history, politics, resource wars, genocide, corporate & governmental thievery of the people, etc. (you know, "reality.")

Fuck yeah I'm an angry brown person. Probably will be for my whole life unless and until white people, who think it's fine to just stay neutral in this fucked up cycle, stand up and say something, do something about the injustices that brown people face.

I have no happy ending here, no constructive and positive note to end on. What I experienced was fucked up and my head still hurts, two days later. And it's a part of the way this world is run and I'm mad as hell about it.

The End.

Labor Day

There are a LOT of things I could say about the “political” happenings of the past few weeks, which greatly intensified in the past few days. But I think the most important thing is:

Congratulations, Glenn Beck. Your ass is showing. As is the flabby, pasty ass of the entire Republican party.

You see, while the rest of us (you know, the majority of the country, the 75% or so who think you are a waste of space) are understandably upset this weekend, we also have renewed hope. Because we know the reason that you and your cronies started this schizophrenic smear-campaign against our friend Van is because we are winning. You’re shaking in your Men’s Wearhouse trousers and you don’t even know the half of it.

You see, if you thought taking out Van was going to be any kind of success, you were sorely mistaken. Because supporting Van and the movement for creating a just and sustainable economic system and combating climate change is an army of smart, savvy, trained leaders and organizers who are carrying out the work all around the country. Under-resourced? Absolutely. Exhausted? Definitely. Still determined? You betcha. And this pathetic demonstration of your fear of Van and everything he symbolizes has just emboldened us. We know that you only knew part of the story and that you were already terrified. Imagine if you knew the whole truth – that our movement has gone viral.

The good news for you and for all of us is that our win will not compromise you and your quality of life. Progressives by definition are working toward a better world for ALL, in contrast to conservatives who consistently work to oppress the “other.” So even though you make this game difficult for us (yes, all of you, even “nice” conservatives who support oppression via silence and apathy), when we win this seemingly uphill battle, you will not be left behind. We got you.

Holler at me in a few years. I’ll be the one growing tomatoes and harvesting rainwater. You’ll be the one with a useless pile of paper money and a Jesus fish on the back of your rusted SUV. I promise I’ll resist the urge to laugh in your face, and instead will share my bounty. You’re welcome in advance.

Something I wrote when I was 25.

Maybe I will float until I am level with the moon – and from there, where there is no day – from that vantage point, I will see the sleeping heads and writhing naked bodies and breast-feeding mothers and adult children holding the hands of their dying parents and I will hear adolescents weep in their sleep and I will watch addicts in ritual, cleaning the blinds while blasting Guns ‘n Roses, and maybe then it will all make sense.

Maybe I will continue to levitate and join god/goddess and I will be suspended right there next to him/her and from there I will watch the scope of it from birth to death to birth to death to birth and all the filler: the books read and the sex had and the tears shed and the drugs ingested and the religions and faiths lost and found and lost and found and lost again. I will hear the music made and I will watch the delusions created and the lies told, then the coming clean and the real revelations. Maybe then – maybe then I will understand.

And then I will leave the heavens and cycle back down to the dust from whence they claim we came and from deep inside the compost of decaying leaves and wormshit and layer upon layer of decomposing animal skin bits and the dead parts of trees and confusing pieces of blue plastic I will watch as everything is reborn. Seeds will sprout and mammal mothers will feed on the sprouts to nourish the new animals growing in their wombs and dogs will shit the digested cereal that sustains them onto me, but it’s more food for the insects and everything is where it should be. Maybe then – maybe then the questions will be answered.

What if

What if you were an unbound volume of love poems?
What if you were a stack of papers in between my sweaty palms?
What if I scattered you?
What if I bound you?
What if I trembled, holding you, unsure of what to do, unsure of how to share you?

Longing

The last times I felt you,
I dipped entirely into scalding waters
To wash you off my skin.

And now, your familiar tongue and digits
Protrude from my throat and eye sockets.
I remember that you come from within.

It's been a full season since he mailed to me
The strings
And book
And money.
I haven't managed to enjoy or learn
A thing
from
The gift.
I find it funny.

It's never the thing
It's never the thing
It's NEVER the THING.

It's always everything else.

untitled

Dear Love, you come to find me
In forms no one ever taught me
To expect:

In the juice of blood oranges staining my cutting board;
Tucked into shared arms I make no attempt to own.
From my rooftop, you are the clouds and the glistening surface of the lake.

In appreciation of integrity, honesty, and intention, I find you in myself, Love.

You laugh boldly in my face from the bathroom mirror;
I hold you in a loose fist as I jump over fire at sunset on the Tuesday before the vernal equinox.
You wiggle in a blue bowl as I break egg yolks with a fork and whisk them into you.
You are my 17 or so strands of gray hair.

How many rediscoveries of you, Love, await me? How delightful, this imperfect life.

The real power shift

(2/27/09)

I’ve recently awoken and downed a cup of Starbucks’ coffee out of a Styrofoam cup on an airplane. I’m headed to Washington D.C. to be 1/11,000th of a crowd of mostly young folks congregating to talk about climate change. The irony is not lost on me.

I’m surrounded by men and their smells. Three men in front of me, one on either side, three behind me. One smells of sweat, one of old age, and another has the kind of gas and halitosis that can only be the result of a lack of sleep or an illness. There is also a hint of 8:00 am airport lounge gin martini. I haven’t decided which male is responsible for each of the myriad odors, but have instead been letting my sleepiness use my nose as a guide into dreams, the kind that are taffy-stretchy versions of real memories. Guided by this smell, these dreams, this nose of mine, I remember sweaty unemployed afternoons with a certain man.

My head has been lolling around awkwardly regardless of my travel pillow shaped like a cute, soft toilet seat. The bag of trail mix I bought at the airport is mostly sugar. I can’t stop myself from thinking about how huge my carbon footprint is with my current lifestyle, even though I walk to work every day. And after all this time, having worked on both individual solutions to the environmental crisis & systemic solutions . . . after all this time, I’m feeling more and more like throwing my hands up in the air in despair, running somewhere, running long enough that I find that patch of dirt that will beckon me, then sowing seeds and taking a pen in my hand and living life as though “problem” was an imaginary word and “money” was as well.

Maybe this particular episode was triggered by the Economist. I always buy the current issue when I travel, partly because it’s informative and readable, and the only time I have attention span enough to read a magazine cover-to-cover is on a plane, and partly because I think it makes me look smart.

And in one segment on the crashing global economy a reference was made to another article in the issue focused on the millions of Chinese who left the cities to go to the countryside in January of this year for the new year, and the staggering amount who didn’t bother returning. I look forward to reading the full article. I know poverty is no joke, but I can’t help but delight a little bit at all the closed toy factories that must be collecting dust, waiting for an urban kid who happened to get a hold of a camera to break in one night and make art of its eeriness, and maybe make out with his boyfriend in a safe and novel place, too.

Yes, I am often choosing delight in these uncertain times. Try it, say out loud, “crashing global economy.” I guarantee a little spasm of giddiness if you are anything like me. And of course, we can sober it up, too, where appropriate. Say, out loud, “thousands of factories in Southern China are now abandoned. Their workers went home to the countryside for the new year in January. Millions never came back.” (Economist Feb. 21-27, 2009, p. 9)

So my only concern, my only real issue with this crash, this delicious, disobedient crash that has old white men who are used to obedience from the people and systems they thought they controlled sweating into their stinky collars and Italian suits, my only issue . . . is those Chinese workers. And the other workers all around the world. Yes, humans are resilient, but we’ve populated the world to such a degree (and made it so damn filthy) that I know that the widening poverty class will not have the option to slip back into idyllic countryside living – growing food and drinking water from a stream. There is and will continue to be growing disease and famine and death and destruction. And all that precious fucking money that the crooked bankers and all the other crooked old men are hoarding won’t be put to use in time. And it won’t be put to use where it can actually be helpful. No, it will rot in the clenched fists of those men while people starve and get dysentery and shoot each other and sell each other crack to survive. And when it finally gets so bad that their precious money is completely worthless, they won’t even be around to see it, those men with no resources but money (paper!) They will have long withered away, having lived empty existences capped off by crippling, devastating fear of who they have become and the untold and unnecessary sorrows they have inflicted on their brothers and sisters – their human family and this one unique earth. I almost don’t know who to feel more sorry for.